


Run Far From All You've Ever Known

by Arientis



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Amnesia, Angst, Everybody Lives, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, but please dont, fuck elias, if i can hold off from making it quick and fluffy, ish, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arientis/pseuds/Arientis
Summary: Jon's been hurt before. Far too much and far too often. He has kept his feelings close to his chest for far longer than healthy, but he cannot help it. When he stumbles into a coffee shop late at night and meets Martin, a friendly barista who he likes just a bit too much, he starts to think that maybe things will be a bit better after all.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 54
Kudos: 108





	1. Prologue: Far From All You've Ever Known

Everything from before was blurred. He preferred it that way. He preferred the blurriness and forgetfulness and the current emptiness to whatever had to have come before. Either way, it was not like he could remember it anyway, so why should he care? That was what he told himself anyway. He did what he could to keep the deep and unmissable loneliness from creeping in. And it could get very Lonely sometimes.

The doctors told him that it was a miracle, and, honestly, on some days Jon could almost believe it. The chances of waking up from a year-long coma almost entirely unaffected were slim, and even slimmer were the chances that the only real thing to happen was some memory loss. They did, however, tell him that the manner of the loss was rather odd. He could remember near everything in his life up until 2011 which was when everything became fuzzy and 2015 when things cut out completely.

Walking around in a world you barely knew before was.. Odd to say the least. So many advancements had been made and Jon was struggling to keep up. He was very glad to have some people that he knew, if only vaguely. He remembered Tim, to an extent, and Sasha. He, of course, knew Georgie, having dated her in university, but he was surprised at her cordiality when he saw her, and her constant references to “our apartment” confused him so much he had to ask her if they had gotten back together. They hadn’t. Obviously. Instead, it turned out that they had moved in together sometime within his so-called ‘blackout period’. They had a cat, too. His name was The Admiral. Jon fell in love instantly.

Still, as much as Jon had tried to move on from the inevitable blackness of his past, he knew that there would always be a part of him that wished to know, to regain as much of his memories and his past life as possible. This curiosity, this  _ monster _ , was growing bigger and bigger on the daily, and it made Jon both want to scream and cry, to move on or to give in completely. And yet, for all his wishes to regain that part of himself, he sometimes wondered whether that would really be a good idea – if the nightmares he would be subject to almost daily was any indication of this. 

He would often awake in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and clutching at his sheets. One night, he had unknowingly scratched at the small, pockmarked scars that covered much of his left forearm, underarm, shoulder, and neck to the point where they were bleeding a dark crimson, jagged and raised red lines left tell-tale stories of where his nails had scratched. Sometimes, when he was looking back at the small white lines, he could have sworn that his blood was not red at all, but instead a dark green. He made sure to keep his nails short after that.

Jon started sleeping less and less after that first incident. As much as he would hate to admit it, he feared the times that he would be subject to the eternal blackness, to the idea of fitful unrest, to the feverish remembrances of his mind and to the monsters that resided there. They were never the same, not really, but they often carried the same feelings, some of the same, repeated wisps of memories. There was the feeling of worms, alien and entirely  _ wrong,  _ wriggling inside him, under his skin. He wonders, sometimes, whether these worms are the cause of his small, circular scars, or if it is just a fantasy that his mind had made up to placate his eternal curiosity. All too often, this was accompanied by a searing pain that would always be centred around his right side. He placed this to the large scar marring much of the skin on his right hand and wrist. Some of it was still a dark red, the rest a faded pink that told of a pain that would never go away, not really, it both intrigued and disgusted him. Sometimes, he would hear a scream echo in his ears, the sound of something he could only describe as being one of somebody being turned inside out and incinerated. It was a horrible sound, and one that Jon would never wish to hear again if he had the choice. 

Unfortunately for him, however, he did not. Instead, he just went about his day in the only way he could, trying to make sense of the world around him and feeling completely and utterly alone in a city bustling with life. He had learnt very quickly to apply concealer to the worst of his pockmarked scars. He didn't want a repeat incident of the time he had gotten onto a train and made a small boy cry when he looked at him. The way his mother had spoken to him had made him feel small and insignificant and he would not be lying to say that he had gone home and cried afterwards. Yes, it is best to say that he learned quickly. He wore a glove on at least his right hand when he went outside, and never wore short sleeves if he could help it. He was very happy that he lived in London and not somewhere much warmer; to live somewhere where it reached 40 degrees easily in the middle of summer and not being able to wear short pants or sleeves would have been torture. He had always wanted to travel, especially to warmer countries, and especially now that he had no real job to tie him down and a mysterious amount of money in his bank account he had never remembered earning. He couldn’t, though. He was too afraid. Too afraid that he would get stuck somewhere without his small protections, without his long sleeves or his make up or his safety net of friends he barely remembered. No, it was for the best that he stayed in London. At least for the time-being.


	2. Hello My Old Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was not to say that the mystery man was unattractive. Martin was sure that somewhere under the many layers of clothes and the greasy hair that looks like it was hurriedly plaited a month ago and then left to do its own thing and the gloves, or, as Martin looks closer, one glove, on his right hand, and the bags under his eyes so large and dark they could be black holes and the thin, scrawny figure that was his body, indicative of too little food for a long time, under all that, Martin was sure that the man could be called attractive. It just… needed a little digging to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Description of a panic attack, disassociation/separation from body, touch starvation, feeling of not being able to breathe, worms, possible trypophobia warning

It was just about closing time when a man far too haggardly and scrawny to possibly be real pushed himself through the doors of The Safehouse. The coffee shop did advertise late closing and early opening hours, but never did Martin expect for someone to push through a mere 5 minutes before 11pm, 5 minutes before he was free to go home and catch some sleep after baking and serving customers and making coffees all day. It couldn't possibly be one of the regulars; most of them he knew by name, and they certainly, definitely, did not look like this.

That was not to say that the mystery man was unattractive. Martin was sure that somewhere under the many layers of clothes and the greasy hair that looks like it was hurriedly plaited a month ago and then left to do its own thing and the gloves, or, as Martin looks closer, one glove, on his right hand, and the bags under his eyes so large and dark they could be black holes and the thin, scrawny figure that was his body, indicative of too little food for a long time, under all that, Martin was sure that the man could be called attractive. It just… needed a little digging to find.

Either way, Martin had decided that this little man deserved a break, so he put on his best customer service smile and his most friendly voice, and packed away the small part of him that demanded he kick the man out and go home to rest into the smallest, darkest recesses of his mind and he spoke.

"Hello," he said, "Welcome to The Safehouse. What can I do to help you?"

The man jumped, seemingly surprised to have someone talking to him, and cleared his throat.

"Oh. Um. I'm sorry. I didn't. I haven't. I.. uh.. I didn't quite realise where I was. I just needed a break from.." the man trailed off, and the shop settled into an uneasy silence.

"A break from...?" Martin prompted, "A break from what?"

"Abreakfromoutside," the sentence was hurried and spoken as if it was only one word, as though the man had tried to hold them back but they had been forcibly pushed into the outside world anyway. 

"A break... a break from having to act as though the endless noise and expectations aren't taking its toll on me. A break from.. from.. I'm sorry," the man shook his head, as though to clear his mind, "I-I'm sorry. I don't know what prompted me to say that. I should go. I'm sorry for disturbing your evening."

The man turned abruptly, and made to leave, but, almost on a whim, Martin reached out to catch one of the man's arms in his hand. Silently, he guided the man to the back room behind the counter and gestured to him to sit down. Shakily, the man sat, swaying slightly, and Martin, satisfied that he would not disappear the moment he turned his back, went to the tap to fill a glass of water.

"Thanks," the man said, "I appreciate it, but don't worry yourself over me. Please. You must be tired, I'll be on my way."

We went to stand. Once more, Martin pushed him back down.

"Nope," he said, "you stay right there."

The man smiled slightly, "Why, so you can make sure I don't steal anything?"

Martin was taken aback. "No! Um, that is to say. You look like you need some sleep. Or. Um. Some rest? You look like you can barely stand. I mean, uh, you're still swaying."

Now, the man laughed, "oh, no, it was a joke. Sorry."

"Oh."

There was silence once more.

-

When Jon had burst through the doors of the first open store he could find, he had not expected that he would be sitting on a fairly comfortable, albeit slightly worn, chair in what he could only assume was the break room with a tall and only slightly intimidating man making sure he kept drinking water. He had, instead, expected a flurry of ‘get out’s and ‘we’re closed’s or even silence. But no, this mystery shop owner had somehow decided to… what was the right word…. take him under his wing? Or take care of him, in any case. 

He didn’t know how to express his gratitude, how to say thank you to this kind stranger. No matter how he tried the words wouldn’t come out. So he just.. stayed silent. 

It filled the room. 

At first, it was comforting, not to have the business and noise of the world outside demanding his attention, but as it stretched on Jon realised that he liked it less and less. His skin began to itch, something inside of him telling him that he had to fill this silence, to make it less stifling, but he couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come. His lungs felt tight, so he gasped for breath. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

The panic set in. 

Everything felt numb. He couldn’t feel his hands or his feet. His body didn't feel like it was his anymore. It felt... alien. Like he was merely an occupant in a house that he didn't own.

He couldn't breathe. Oh, _gods_ . He couldn't _breathe_.

He was going to die. He was going to die. Oh, gods, he couldn't breathe and he was going to die. In the backroom of a cafe he didn't know with a person whose name he didn't know, he was going to _die._

"I- I can't," Jon couldn't get the words out.

"Shhh," the man said, "it's okay. It'll all be okay."

Frantic and wild-eyed, Jon looked at the stranger, who was currently saying something that he couldn't hear. He could see that words were being formed, but all that was in his ear was the sound of static and wind.

"It's okay-" Jon heard this.

"I need you to breathe with me, okay?" The man continued, "Can you do that for me? Can you hear me? Oh, gods, this is probably too many questions... can you nod for me so I know that you can hear me?"

Slowly, Jon forced his head to raise and lower slightly in what could barely be counted as a nod. The man, however, took this to be an affirmative so he took in a deep breath and raised his palms to his chest to show that he was breathing in. He gestured to Jon to copy him, and, slowly, Jon forced his lungs to cooperate. The man then lowered his hands; an exhale, and, like a puppet, Jon copied the action clumsily.

With every inhale and exhale, the movement of air through his lungs became easier and easier, until Jon was, once more, breathing at an almost normal rate. He was still shaking slightly, and he could already feel the tiredness that came after a bad panic attack such as the one he had just had begin to set in.

"Thank you," he managed to force the words out, "thank you so much. I'm.. I'm sorry for just barging in here and forcing you to help me. I've probably taken away from your rest time, haven't I?"

The man chuckled slightly. It was a warm sound, one that promised good times and good humour. "Maybe a little bit, but it's no problem, I promise. I think that you needed the rest and the company and the help more than I needed the time. I probably would have just spent it in front of my laptop in any case."

Jon flushed. "I'm still sorry though. I mean. You don't even know who I am and I have practically thrown my issues and my problems and my _worthlessness_ and my.. my... my me-ness all over you. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-"

"Hey now," the man cut him off, "none of that, please. It was no issue. I'm glad I could help. And if you're so worried about the whole 'we don't even know each other' thing, my name is Martin. Martin Blackwood." He held out a hand, as though for Jon to shake.

"Oh.. um. I'm Jonathan. Jon, that is. Jon Sims."

Hesitantly, Jon took the man's - _Martin's-_ hand. It was soft enough, large, much larger than his, and calloused in the way that one expects a baker to have calloused hands. It was.. a nice feeling, Jon would admit, but never to anyone, and certainly never aloud. It was at this point that he realised that he had been holding on to Martin's hand for quite a while now and Martin was looking at him rather oddly.

"Oh! Um. Sorry." Jon pulled his hand away and wiped it on his pant leg; it was ever so slightly sweaty. That was never fun.

 _Oh, gods,_ he thought, _what if he felt how sweaty my hand was? What if he never wants to talk to me again or he only remembers me as 'that weird dude who once had a panic attack in his backroom at 11 pm and then shook his hand with one covered in sweat'? Oh gods oh gods oh-_

"Hey," Martin's voice brought him out of his panic again, "what did I say about the zoning out and the panic?"

"To, um.. To not do it?"

This made Martin laugh, his head was tossed back and his mouth was wide open. It was a beautiful sight. Jon was, in all honesty, kind of star struck.

 _Shut up Jon_ , he thought to himself, _you cannot just jump to having a crush on any person who makes you feel safe. You. Can. Not. Martin is simply a nice man who is only slightly handsome and very much my type but also definitely not someone who I will have a crush on, yes? Yes. Good. It is decided then._

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm, um. I'm alright now. Just very tired. Drained. Physically and mentally exhausted, you know?"

"Yeah, I. I get that," Martin's voice got slightly quieter now, and he looked down. "Just... just make sure that you get lots of rest tonight, okay? You deserve it. And don't come at me with the whole 'but I don't deserve it I'm just an emo man who doesn't need to take care of himself' spiel, okay? You are going to go home as soon as you feel able to and you are going to climb into bed and sleep soundly and deeply and well."

Martin's words were so decisive and felt so raw and _honest_ that Jon couldn't do anything except exactly that. He said his 'thank you's and his 'have a lovely evening's and even a couple 'I'm so sorry for the disruption's (those were all dismissed with a wave of a hand and a small huff of breath that made Jon's chest swell with warmth) and left through the front of the cafe. He could still feel the smile on his cheeks three blocks away.

-

_There is a scream, loud and cut off abruptly. Jon can hear it somewhere, but he cannot place it. It is dark around him. He is Lonely. He cannot See. He can feel, though, and he wishes he can't. There are worms, worms everywhere, burrowing deep into his skin and wriggling around. He scratches and claws at his skin, doing something, anything , just to get them out. He wishes he has a corkscrew or blade, but his nails will have to do. He can feel them dying, the life leaving their small, still wriggling bodies, far too many still inside of him. He wants them out !_

_The scene changes and all of a sudden he can feel all too much and not enough at all. He Knows everything without wanting to. He Knows that he relies on something for his continued life and he begs it to release him, to give him rest, to let him be Unknown, if even only for a short while. He can feel it when the pressure leaves him, when the silence takes over the noise that used to fill his mind and the blackness takes the place of the golden-green light his senses seemed to be eternally bathed in. It is, at the same time, a breath of fresh air and his worst possible nightmare._

_Another change, and now he is in a dark room, the space is mostly taken up with a large oaken desk and a leather chair behind it. In the chair sits a body, tall and thin and with the whitest hair Jon has ever seen. The man is wearing jewellery with symbols of eyes wherever a patch of skin is clear enough to house an earring or a necklace. Jon thinks he can see a bracelet clutched in the man's right hand. It would be a peaceful scene, apart from the fact that the corpse is covered in blood that stems from a wound in his temple. A bloody pipe has been haphazardly thrown to the ground beside him. A voice whispers the name Elias as though it is meant to mean anything to him. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to Know._

_And, all amongst these nightmarish scenes, Jon catches sightings of startling blue eyes, a flash of blond hair, an all too peaceful smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me writing more than I ever have in one day to post this before I lose all motivation to write again instead of doing school work


	3. It’s Not Agoraphobia, It’s Just A Lack Of Air Supply

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to two people! My lovely beta Aries and my friend Augustine (you should check out his gerrymichael fics! (@/Honeybee_Apocalypse))
> 
> Also sorry for any formatting issues! I’m camping right now and trying to upload this on my phone so I’ll edit anything when I have wifi and access to my laptop again!
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Agoraphobia by Autoheart
> 
> I don’t think there are any TWs in this chapter but please let me know if there are!

Jon awoke in a start; all at once and none too restful. His chest heaved and his skin was shiny with sweat. His bedsheet was tightly gripped in one hand and the other shakily moved to card through his slick and sticky hair.

Another nightmare, he thought, just what I needed.

He hated his nightmares. Not because they were nightmares, but because he felt that he should know what happened in them. He felt like the actions and events did happen to him; that they were his memories, and... that scared him. 

It scared him because he should know. It scared him because he didn't. But most of all, it scared him because he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Light streamed through the blinds next to his bed, slitted beams casting shadows over his body and straight into his eyes. 

"Damn," he groaned to himself, "I mustn't have closed them last night."

More often than not, it seemed, he would begin his days as he did now; after midday and with absolutely no will to get up and do anything. It wasn't as though he had any real work to do, no job to idly pass the hours by, no real friends to go out and meet, and not even anything in the kitchen that he was excited enough about to roll out of bed to make. Though, now that he thought about it, he could probably do with getting up and getting some groceries. And, if he just so happened to walk past a certain coffee shop just about tea time, well that couldn't be helped.

Fifteen minutes after he had come to this decision, and with all too much grumbling, he finally dragged himself out of bed.

-

Jon regretted the groceries. Carrying two paper bags of various foodstuffs in each hand was not an attractive look on anyone, least of all someone as short and scrawny as he. His dark skin was flush with sweat and tinged ever-so-slightly with the pink-red of blush, and his arms strained with the effort of wrangling the bags that he was sure weighed half of his own body weight. Okay, maybe he was exaggerating just a bit, but he was tired and hot, and desperately in need of a coffee.

He didn't like coffee in any real way, he thought that the smell was slightly too pungent, and the taste could certainly be lacking, but when he needed a shot of caffeine to wake him up or give him the energy to keep going on through whatever tasks his afternoon might need, coffee was the way to go.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Jon barged through the doors to The Safehouse for the second time in as many days, this time only slightly more composed, and ever so much more out of breath. 

Martin was behind the counter, but Jon would have been surprised if he had been somewhere else. If he were to be asked, he would deny any and all cases of sneaky Google stalking, but nevertheless he knew that Martin K. Blackwood was the proud owner and operator of The Safehouse café and coffee shop, the New Age Hipster's first stop for vegan-friendly food and drink, and, apparently, was the head of a local queer book club that met there fortnightly. Jon didn’t recognise the flutter of nerves in his stomach as he read that, and he waved it away with a half-hearted 'he could just be a really supportive ally.'

As quiet and unobtrusive as Jon wished for his entrance to be, fate seemed to have opposite plans for him; first, he tripped over the front step which sent him tumbling through the door, the bell situated by the door frame screaming his arrival to the few patrons who were actually in the store. This was followed, of course, with the law of gravity kicking in and sending him sprawling onto the floor. Luckily for him, he hadn't bought eggs or milk, or anything else that could make even more of a mess of the situation he found himself in. Unluckily, however, one of the loaves of bread he had bought from one of the more expensive wholesale retailers (that he one hundred percent did not choose because of its proximity to The Safehouse) decided to escape the bag it was held captive in and slide rather gracefully, if one could call a loaf of bread graceful, across the floor to the front of the store, coming to a stop seemingly in slow motion as it hit the front counter. Jon cursed, silently.

This, of course, had gotten the attention of everyone in the shop, including, much to Jon's dismay, that of Martin.

"Jon!" he called out, his smile so wide and voice so cheerful it made Jon's chest hurt. "It's so good to see you! Here, let me help you with that."

In an instant, Martin was no longer behind the till and instead kneeling beside Jon, helping him to collect his groceries and package them up in an order that was roughly what it was before. He rose once everything was back together, and held out a hand to help him up. Gingerly, he placed his left hand, the unburned one, in the other's and felt himself being pulled up. It made him blush more than he would have liked to admit, but he was relying on the flush already on his face to hide any extra redness that may or may not have been there.

"Now," Martin said, pulling Jon out of his thoughts, "how may I help you?"

"Oh! Um..." Jon scrambled to put his thoughts into a coherent enough order to speak, "a coffee, please. I don't mind what kind it is, it just needs enough caffeine to give me a heart attack. Or keep me awake. They're close enough really. I mean, you could give me the worst coffee ever and I wouldn't know any difference because I don't really like it. I prefer tea, but I need to stay awake, for some damned reason. Oh!" He took a breath. "I'm sorry. You wanted my order, not my life's story. Just a coffee please."

Martin grinned, and Jon felt like they were in a world that was all their own, the chatter in the rest of the cafe fading into mere background noise. Jon felt his heart fluttering again which was stupid because they had met yesterday and he had made a fool of himself both times, but, for once, he didn't care. 

Someone behind him in the line coughed as though to get their attention and the spell was broken. This time, Martin flushed, tucked some of his curly, dirty blonde hair behind one of his ear, and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well," he said, "one large coffee with enough caffeine in it for a hit of energy but not enough to kill a man coming right up! That will be £1.80, thanks."

Jon handed over the money with a small "okay, um, I'll just, uh, go sit over there, then", picked up his bags, and herded both them and himself over to one of the corner tables with a good view of the street through the window.

He very pointedly ignored the sight of Martin smirking in the corner of his eye as he sat down and took off his coat.

-

Martin wasn’t sure what it was that drew him to the small man who called himself Jonathan Sims. To any outer perspective it would seem that he was rough, rude and all too abrasive. Should someone have told him this, Martin would not have denied it. And yet, he felt as though there was something more to the man. He was rude, sure. Abrasive and grouchy, definitely. But he couldn’t help but think that they were defence mechanisms he used to hide himself and make him feel less approachable. Martin was determined to see Jon without his walls up. 

He didn’t let himself think why, just grinned to himself and grabbed a pastry from the display counter.

-

Jon looked up from his phone as a mug of steaming liquid and a plate was set in front of him. He noticed the apple turnover in front of him and raised his eyes to Martin’s smiling face.

“I didn’t order the pastry,” he said. “There must be a mistake.”

Martin winked in response, then leaned in and whispered, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Jon was certain his blush could be seen from the other side of the cafe. He ate as quickly as he could and tried his best not to burn his throat from the coffee, which he thought had some kind of peppermint in it, before standing up and bringing his now empty dishes to the counter.

Martin’s mouth made a neat, but silent ‘oh’, before he shook his head and said, “You really didn’t have to do that. I would have come around and taken everything.”

It was Jon’s turn to grin now. “Yeah but I wanted to. Besides, I still have to say thank you for the food. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“Well.. uh.. Thanks. Again I mean. Thank you.”

With that, Jon took his bags in hand once more, smiled, and walked out onto the street.

It was only when he was at home, unpacking his shopping and planning what he would make for his and Georgie’s dinner that he realised he had left his coat back at the shop.

“Shit.”


	4. When I Was A Baby I Was Blessed By A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon panics, Georgie helps, schemes are made
> 
> TW: Panic attack, trauma flashback, depersonalisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this hasn't been beta'd because I felt bad for not posting and I wanted to post what I had. This is only half of chapter 3 but I guess the second half will be chapter 4 now, haha..)
> 
> Title is from Starchild by Ghost Quartet

The floor creaked under Jon’s feet as he paced back and forth in his and Georgie’s kitchen, all thoughts of the dinner he was supposed to be preparing left behind. It was just his luck that he would do something stupid like leaving his _only winter coat_ at a cafe he had embarrassed himself twice at in the same number of days.

 _Oh shit,_ he thought, _oh fuck. What am I going to do? I can’t just walk in and ask for it, can I? Wait.. can I? No I can’t. I don’t have my name inside it. I just have to hope that someone noticed that I left it there and gave it to.. To Martin._

_Shit. What’s he going to think of me? I’m such an idiot. First I have some kind of breakdown in front of him and then I trip and send everything flying and he just. He just smiles and helps me. Why?_

_Oh gods._

_I’ve tricked him into thinking that I’m a good person. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Fuck fuck fuck fuck shit. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die I can’t breathe. I’m going to die on the kitchen floor because ican’tbreathe._

Jon was so far gone that when the key turned in the lock he didn't hear it. So far gone that he didn’t hear the “Jon? I’m home.” from the living room. Didn’t hear the muffled exclamation of shock and didn’t hear someone sit down next to him.

“-on? Jon? Can you hear me Jon?” someone was speaking. Who was it? He couldn’t remember. Who were they speaking to? Was it him? He was Jon, right? Yes, he is Jon. Jon. Jon should- he should answer the question.

Slowly, shakily, Jon nodded his head.

The person sighed in relief. “Okay Jon I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Another question. Jon nodded again, more stable this time.

“Good. Okay. I need you to breathe with me, yeah? I’m going to count up to five and I need you to breathe in for me. And then we’re going to release that breath to the count of seven, okay? Good. Yeah.”

The person shifted towards him – Jon could feel their body heat wash against his arm and left side through his shirt – and began to count. As they counted, Jon breathed. It was difficult, at first, his breaths coming all too quickly or not at all, and his heart was beating as quickly as a rabbit’s, but slowly, surely, he came down. The world no longer looked fuzzy or all too sharp, and he recognised the woman kneeling next to him – _Georgie_ – who was still telling him to keep on breathing.

“I’m okay,” he said, forcing the words to come, “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Georgie sighed in response, “I was really worried for a bit. You haven’t had a panic attack that bad for a while.”

Jon nodded along, thinking it wise to not mention the events of the night prior. He stood as quick as he was able, which wasn’t all that quick at all, his legs shook and threatened to give way beneath him. Georgie stood with him, arms out to help him up should he need it.

“I should make dinner.” He said. “It’s my turn.”

Georgie laughed softly and shook her head. “No way dude. You just had a huge panic attack. There’s no way I’m letting you do anything except sit down and rest.”

“But-”

“Nope! No buts. You’re going to sit your ass down behind the counter and keep me company while I cook.”

Not wanting to face the wrath of Georgina Barker, Jon did exactly that. She was oddly scary like this, at least a half head taller than Jon and seriously invested in his self care, and he didn’t want to know what she would do if he refused her.

Satisfied with his compliance, Georgie finished unpacking the bags of shopping and began to prepare a simple dish of chicken and rice, stating that it was “simple enough that it won’t upset your stomach, Jon, _no don’t look at me like that! You know you get stomach aches when you get anxious!_ ” and made inane smalltalk as she did so. She told Jon about her day, about the many emails she had to send about a haunting in a hotel in New Orleans, and of some of the rather rude responses she had received. Apparently, people didn’t like it all too much when others ask questions about traumatic and horrifying experiences.

They sat together at the table, her leg tapping against Jon’s knee every once in a while, a physical reminder of “I’m here, you’re here, it’s okay” that he appreciated immensely. The world still felt slightly separate to him, but he was mostly present so that’s what he counted. Throughout dinner, Georgie asked him questions about what he did that day, and he felt obliged to tell her about Martin, as much as he would have liked to keep him as his own little secret.

“He was so _kind_ , Georgie!” he exclaimed at one point, “He didn’t even make fun of me for dropping everything everywhere! And he brought me a pastry!”

Georgie smiled, knowingly, “So.. are you going to ask him out?”

“W-what?” Jon’s mouth dropped, “No! No way. I barely know him. And sure, he’s cute, but what if he’s a murderer? Or a… I don’t know. A secret homophobe? What if the cafe is just a front for a drug running business? What if-”

“Jon! Can you hear yourself? Just take some deep breaths, okay? It’s okay. I’ll drop it. But it’s okay if you like him, yeah?” She shifted forward in her seat, taking one of Jon’s hands in her own, “You’re allowed to have feelings. I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but you have us, yeah? You have Tim and Sasha and Georgie and me and we’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s ‘and I’.” Jon muttered.

Georgie smiled and squeezed his hand, “There’s the Jon I know! Anyway. I have made an executive decision as your best friend to organise a meet-up between everyone because you look like you need a day out.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good! Because you don’t have a choice. Your introverted ass needs to get out more.”

“Hey! I get out… sometimes.”

She patted his hand, then pulled back, standing and picking up their, now empty, plates, “Sure you do hon. Come on. Help me with the washing up and then we can do a binge of Warehouse 13? I know you like that show.”

“It’s not my fault that the Artifacts remind me of something. Besides, I know that you’re just in it for Bering and Wells.”

“Hm? What was that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

-

Much, much later, when Jon was passed out next to her, one of the episodes of mid-season three playing, something about stolen Artifacts and an FBI agent turned bad, Georgie pulled out her phone and sent a text.

**Ghost Gal👻💕**

_Today, at 11:30pm_

**Georgie:** Mels, guess what?

**Melanie:** what is it, love?

**Georgie:** jon has Feelings!

**Melanie:** well, yeah? he is technically human?? i may not believe it sometimes, but mans has emotion

**Georgie:** no, i mean… like… i think he likes someone!! he’s this barista at a cafe called the Safehouse

**Melanie:** he

**Melanie:** wait

**Melanie:** the baristas name wouldnt be Martin Blackwood, would it?

**Georgie:** uhhhh yeah

**Georgie:** i think so?? why?

**Melanie:** martin and i used to go to school together

**Melanie:** we meet up sometimes still

**Georgie:** oh my ghost! this is perfect!!

**Melanie:** oh no. what are you thinking??

**Georgie:** okay, hear me out

**Georgie:** we arrange a meetup that just so happens to take place at the Safehouse and

**Georgie:** we can see then in action! And maybe set them up….

**Melanie:** G

**Melanie:** i love you so much right now

 **Georgie:** so is that a yes?

**Melanie:** hells yes! I love torturing the mans /lh

**Georgie:** haha okay :)

**Georgie:** i’m really tired so im gonna go to bed

**Georgie:** goodnight <3

**Melanie:** i love you too!

**Melanie:** gn xx i hope you sleep well

Georgie smiled and turned off first her phone and second the tv, leaned back into the couch to sleep, and ignored the fact that her back would be sore the next morning. That was a problem for Future Georgie.

-

_New Group Chat Created, Today at 9am_

**Let’s Get Bread Together**

**Georgie** _added_ **Tim, Sasha, Melanie** _and_ **Jon**

**Georgie** _changed their name to_ **Ghast-ly**

 **Tim** _changed their name to_ **Kayak Man**

 **Sasha** _changed their name to_ **Sassy Sash**

 **Melanie** _changed their name to_ **Ghost Gal**

**Ghast-ly:** sup fuckers, its tea time

**Kayak Man:** oh???? Spill?????

 **Ghast-ly:** no i mean… were going out

**Kayak Man:** oh,,,

**Kayak Man:** thats no fun then

**Sassy Sash:** Hey! Don’t be mean!

**Kayak Man:** /j*

**Sassy Sash:** Thank you :)

**Ghast-ly:** Aaaaanygay

**Ghast-ly:** I have come to the decision that we have to meet up

**Ghast-ly:** like.. soon

**Sassy Sash:** Ooh! Okay! That would be fun! I haven’t seen you guys in forever!

**Kayak Man:** Agreed! Is everyone free on Friday?

**Ghast-ly:** Yup! that’s the good thing about making your own hours

**Sassy Sash:** Yeah! It’s my day off.

**Ghast-ly:** I know Mels and Jon are free too

**Ghost Gal:** maybe im not. how would you know

**Ghast-ly:** so,,, are you busy?

**Ghost Gal:** ……….no

**Ghast-ly:** i knew it >:)

**Ghast-ly:** So shall we say Friday at 3pm at the Safehouse? It’s a really sweet little cafe on the other side of town. Mels was telling me about it the other day

**Ghost Gal:** yeah! i went to school with the guy who owns it

 **Kayak Man:** sounds good! See you then!

**Sassy Sash:** Okay! That sounds good! I’m looking forward to it!

_Today, 12pm_

**Jon:** Why were you all up that early?

**Ghast-ly:** not all of us have a terrible sleeping schedule

**Jon:** …

\- 

**Georgie Barker**

_Today, at 12:05pm_

**Jon:** Really, Georgie? That Cafe?

**Georgie:** i dont know what youre talking about jon.. mels suggested the cafe

**Jon:** I find that hard to believe.

**Georgie:** too bad cause thats what im going with

**Jon:** Fine.

**Georgie:** love you too

**Jon:** …

**Jon:** <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody knows how i can leave my tumblr here nicely (without pasting the full link,, you know what I mean?) please tell me,, i wanna make tumblr frens
> 
> Edit: my tumblr is @mylifeontheline :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Thanks for joining me on this journey! I cannot promise anything about an upload schedule, but I'll do my best to update at least once a fortnight.


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